


the pretty lies, the ugly truth

by peggycarterisacat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10047068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: His fist in her gut drives the air from her lungs and she falls to the ground, gasping. Somewhere above, Joffrey laughs and Ser Arys helps her to her feet again, his face pale and stricken."Again," Joffrey commands.Ser Arys's jaw tightens and he looks at her with sad eyes, but he obeys.Thinking it will make her life in the capitol easier, Sansa decides to seduce one of the Kingsguard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Teen Idle by Marina and the Diamonds. 
> 
> Sansa is aged up, 'cause otherwise this gets, like, real weird.

Sometimes, when Joffrey orders him to strike her, he protests. But the King is not the sort to relent, and Ser Arys is of the Kingsguard. He always ends up hitting her in the end. She silently thanks him for this small kindness; it is rare that anyone at court speaks a word in her defense, and his fists fall softer than the others'.

She makes sure to cry out just the same, lest the King realize and command Ser Arys to hit her again, only harder.

Joffrey enjoys it all the more, she thinks, when she is beaten by the hands of a would-be savior.

 

* * *

 

That hesitance, that reluctance, that conflicted look on his face -- it all sits on her mind until she realizes that maybe she could use it. He is different from the others, but she cannot trust him -- cannot trust anyone -- for she knows they all watch and report back to the King everything she does, everything she says. He takes no joy in beating her, but he so loves court gossip. Were she to confide anything in him, she fears it would find its way straight into the King's ear.

Still, she likes him. Most everyone avoids her as if she is diseased, and she might as well be; the King's ire is likely contagious. But Ser Arys smiles when he greets her and speaks to her kindly. He lets her take his arm and strolls by her side, unlike his brothers who make her walk ahead while they march behind, watching her every step. She is almost able to forget that he is one of her captors, he is one of her tormentors, he is one of her overseers. If she takes all of the memories and bricks them away -- memories of mailed fists and flats of blades and pain, so much pain -- she can pretend she is somewhere else, some other girl on the arm of a handsome knight.

In the light of day, he treats her like a person, not a prisoner. And though his eyes sometimes shine with the helpless pity that she so hates on the faces of others, there is none of the derision, none of the judgment from him. She finds she doesn't hate it so much when the eyes are his.

He likes her, or at least he feels sorry for her. She can use that.

 

* * *

 

She lets him catch her watching, and then makes a show of blushing and turning away. When she walks with him, she stays as close to him as she dares -- a hair closer than propriety should allow -- and feigns clumsiness so that she brushes against him. The smile she gives him then, looking up at him through her lashes, is a special one she has practiced in her mirror.

She knows the moment that he catches on because he flinches and his cheeks heat and he is distant for several days after. She makes sure to look particularly sad until he comes back again.

 

* * *

 

His fist in her gut drives the air from her lungs and she falls to the ground, gasping. Somewhere above, Joffrey laughs and Ser Arys helps her to her feet again, his face pale and stricken.

"Again," Joffrey commands.

Ser Arys's jaw tightens and he looks at her with sad eyes, but he obeys.

That night as he escorts her back to her rooms, she clings to his arm tighter than she normally would, leaning against him for balance. He doesn't speak, nor does he look at her, but it is better that way. Each breath she takes is measured to hide the sobs that well up unbidden from deep within and her mouth quivers with the effort of holding it all back. She would not be able to hold a conversation befitting a lady just now.

He brings her to her door and waits for her to go inside, but instead she turns and touches his hand, soft as a whisper. Finally he looks at her. She makes her eyes wide and round, and the tears overflow and fall without a thought.

Something falters in the set of his jaw and his fingers wipe away a tear that is tracing its way down her cheek, but then he pulls away. A darkness flickers in his eyes, and he is gone.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't apologize in words, but shame is written on his face whenever he sees her. She plays with that, avoiding his touch, speaking sparsely, averting her gaze; privately she revels at the pleading looks he sends her. Every time he is forced to beat her is a setback, but slowly she lets him think that she is forgiving him.

One night, he brings her to her door, and this time it is he who stops her from going through. He brushes his hands over the bruises he left behind on her arms, and as she flinches away from his touch, his eyes are full of guilt and loathing and something else that makes her breath come short. Gently -- so gently -- he places his hands on her shoulders and steps closer, and then he presses a chaste kiss to her forehead.

She tilts her face up towards his, intending to only look deeply into his eyes, then realizes just how close he is. It would be a simple thing to lean into him and capture his lips with hers, so that is what she does. She has caught him by surprise, heat rushing to her cheeks at her brazenness, and it is a moment before he begins to return the kiss. That is when she chooses to spring away, drawing a hand up to cover her mouth.

She is a maiden from a song infatuated with a brave handsome knight, and that maiden would be ashamed of her boldness. "Forgive me, Ser, I-- I shouldn't--" she stops herself from finishing that thought aloud and hurries to shut herself into her room.

She presses her ear to the closed door, listening. It is several long moments before his footsteps begin to plod back down the hall. 

 

* * *

 

After the riots, she withdraws. She cannot shake the memories, cannot forget the feel of men's grasping hands tearing at her dress. Strong arms like steel chains wrapping around her, holding her down so that no matter how much she struggles she cannot escape. A large hand pressing tight against her mouth so that she cannot scream as hands -- so many hands -- roam her body. A man's body between her legs, his manhood out, so close he almost-- No. No. No. And then it is gone, and there is so much red.

When she lives that day again in her dreams, she never wakes screaming.  Only whimpering, heart racing, pillows soaked through with her tears.

The taste of rescue is still bittersweet in her mouth; she had been plucked from the riotous crowd only to be plopped right back into Joffrey's clutches. She has always known she will not be allowed to choose the man who will take her maidenhead, but now she wonders which way would be worse. Is it be better to be raped by a starving angry mob, or to be raped by a sadistic monster of a King?

It is supposed to be a gift. A gift to a man who will love her and care for her and never, never hurt her.

Not Joffrey.  _Never Joffrey._

 

* * *

 

It takes weeks, and in the end it is probably the influence of a few cups of wine that persuade Ser Arys into her bed. His lips are soft against hers and he touches her as if she is made of glass, and it almost makes her laugh. She is not nearly so fragile. He is among those who should know that best.

The wine burns warm in her belly too, calming the roiling nervousness there. Is this what desire feels like? She's not quite sure. His fingers unlace her dress, slowly, carefully, and he slips her shift off over her head, but when he looks at her nakedness, he freezes.

It's the bruises -- those damned bruises. She draws the sheet up and clutches it to her chest, mind racing, desperate to stop him leaving.

"I'm sorry, ser," she says. Her voice is thick from holding back something -- tears, panic _,_ some genuine emotion threatening to burst from her chest. "I know--  I know it's ugly."

He looks almost alarmed and surges forward again to hold her, the sheet all that separates their bare chests. "No," he manages, "You're not-- _Never_ say that you are ugly."

"Then why…" She takes a shuddering breath, then lets it out all at once.

His presses a kiss to the top of her head, and his fingers gently wrap around her forearm, the thumb brushing a dark bruise there. "I did this," he says. 

"You didn't," she murmurs, and it's not a lie.  Ser Boros had left that one.  She dips her head to catch his downcast eyes.  "You didn't want to."

"I didn't want to," he rumbles, his voice dark, "but has that spared you any pain? I still did it." He's not wrong about that, but she kisses him, lest he get too carried away by his guilt.  "This is treason," he breathes against her lips, but he doesn't draw away. "You are the King's betrothed, I have taken vows--"

She nips at his lips, and his voice dissolves into a soft groan.  "Don't speak to me of the King." She shifts just enough that the sheet begins to slip from her breasts; she fights back a blossoming grin as she sees him struggling not to look. "He's not the one I want."

_Joffrey will never have her maidenhead._

Her eyes lock onto his, and she smiles gently enough to put him at ease, guiding his hands back to her body. A battle between trepidation and lust plays across his face, and she knows it will take only a touch to tip the balance. She leans into him and places three tender kisses along one of his cheekbones. "I love you," she whispers into his ear, and, from the way his hands tighten on her, she knows that she has won.

He catches her lips in a searing kiss and tips her back against the bed. When they break apart, the glory of her little victory has painted a broad smile on her face. His expression softens when he looks down at her, some of the worry smoothing away. "I love you," he whispers back to her with each kiss he lays along the column of her neck, "I love you."

It hurts when he enters her, and her hands fly to his hips to brace against the next thrust, but it doesn't come. Instead, he showers her face with kisses as she gasps through the pain, which ebbs away until all that remains is the strange pressure of something terrifying and foreign inside her. His eyes are squeezed shut and his breath comes ragged but he does not move, every part of him tense and trembling with the effort of his stillness. He has never wanted to hurt her, and -- half exasperated, half appreciative -- she realizes that he will not take his pleasure until he thinks she will welcome it.

She arches her body up against his and kisses him with a fierceness that she thinks must mimic passion. A desperate moan leaves his mouth to be captured by hers, and finally he begins to move. The way he looks at her is exhilarating, addicting. She is a goddess in his arms and he worships her with his body.

When he has finished and the two of them lie curled up in each other, she whispers his name against his hair. She runs hands over strong shoulders and makes promises of love that she doesn't quite intend to keep. He shivers and pulls her closer, and for the first time since she came to King's Landing, she feels powerful.

 

* * *

 

_A woman's best weapon is the one between her legs,_ the Queen tells her.

She already knows.

 

* * *

 

In her heart there is a mixture of giddiness and horror when Joffrey sets her aside in favor of Margaery Tyrell. Elation at her new-found freedom, fear for the new future queen, and the sinking feeling that she had been too rash in taking Ser Arys to bed. Before, marriage to Joffrey and his sadism had loomed inevitable. Now, her only chance of escaping court is to marry another.

It is only a small effort to turn shivers of dread and fear into sobs of hurt and shame. The court looks at her pityingly as Ser Arys removes her from the throne room. Once they are away from all the staring eyes, her sobs become choked, hysterical peals of laughter. She has been a fool. He looks at her, concerned, and takes her hand until she manages to calm herself. Such a fool.

"I am glad you are unharmed," she says to break the tense quiet that follows. It is the first time she has seen him since the battle, and, despite everything, she finds that she means the words.

 

* * *

 

An end to their betrothal, she quickly learns, does not mean an end to Joffrey's abuse. And Margaery Tyrell's presence at court only means that her beatings are now private. She likes not being beaten and stripped for the entire court to see, but she would much rather not be beaten or stripped at all. Ser Arys now objects to her treatment more than ever before, no matter how much she wills the lovesick fool to stay silent.

"Please, Ser. Please hit me," she begs as Joffrey's ire grows dangerous. A vicious grin bursts across the King's face, but Arys freezes.

"What was that, my lady?" Joffrey asks, as if he has not heard.

"Please hit me, Ser," she repeats, louder.

Joffrey feigns confusion badly. "But why, my lady? Why do you want this great knight--" he sneers-- "to hit you?"

"I've been wicked," she says, looking Arys in the eye. His mouth hangs open, distraught, and he shakes his head. "I deserve it."

"Ask him again, nicely, and use his name this time."

"Ser Arys, please." He flinches as she says his name. "Please hit me."

"Well?" Joffrey grows impatient. "Do as the lady asks."

_"Please--"_

He complies, looking as if he wants to die.

When he returns her to her room, he tries to envelop her in his arms. She pushes him away.

"You can't do that," she hisses, "You can't argue with him."

"But--"

"He promised my father mercy and then cut his head off. What do you think he will do to us if he finds out?"

Arys stutters, having no answer.

"Do as he tells you," she insists, "Don't challenge him again."

"Don't ask me to hurt you. Never ask that of me again." There are tears tracking down his cheeks, she notices. Her own eyes are dry. She can't quite remember the last time she wept.

"You must, or he will hurt me more."

He reaches for her, his eyes full of despair, but she retreats into her room. She sits with her back against the closed door and waits for his footsteps to disappear down the hall.

 

* * *

 

His eyes are now blank whenever he hits her; he has finally learned to mask the emotions that dance across his face, though she can still detect the guilt, the anger, the longing.

She misses him. She misses being able to take his arm and smile and laugh and pretend. But it would be foolish to let herself be distracted by frivolous dreams, and so she plots.

When her plans with the Tyrells are uncovered, she is surprised, but not very surprised. Nothing ever goes right for her, not here in the capitol. When Ser Dontos is found floating in the bay, her last dreams of escape die with him. She had allowed herself to hope - but hope is for girls who haven't seen their father's head cut from his shoulders. Hope is for girls who aren't beaten by those sworn to protect.

Hope is for girls who aren't married off to their enemies like chattel.

 

* * *

 

He slips into her rooms one night while her husband is out, when she had thought to be alone in her grief.

"Ser Arys!" Shocked, she fumbles for a robe -- she wears only a nightgown, and this is entirely improper -- but at a touch from his hand, she stills.

"If you wish me to leave, I will," he begins. "But I could not stay away."

She looks up at him, conscious that her eyes must be red and swollen, and he cups her face in his hands.

"I am sorry," he says, "for your mother and your brother."

"There is nothing to be sorry for." The answer is automatic, emotionless. "They were traitors."

His face falls. "You'll still tell that lie, even to me?" She has no answer. "They were your family. You cannot-- You must feel _something_."

A fine tapestry hangs behind him, and she focuses her eyes on its weave instead of his face. "My family were all traitors, ser, and I am loyal to-- I am loyal to the King."

He strokes his fingers along her jaw. She wants to lean into his touch, to accept what comfort he will bring her. "You can speak true to me. Who do you think will hear? Or," he stills, "or, do you no longer care for me? Do you no longer trust me?"

She cannot answer that. She simply steps closer to him, lets him encircle her in his arms, and presses her face against his chest, forcing back tears. Grief has ripped her into shreds and scattered her helpless to the wind, but his presence is grounding -- the rhythm of his breath, the pounding of his heart heavy against her cheek. Where is her own heart? It is gone, carved from her chest and crushed, leaving behind nothing but this miserable wreck of a girl.

He speaks -- the pleasant rumble of his words wash over her, but she doesn't much care what he says. They lie together, tangled on a low settee drowned in cushions, pressed up against each other as she clings to him. He is an anchor, holding her here so that she is not swept away with each wave of agony that comes with the beating of her broken heart. She cannot cry again; she fears that if she does, she will never stop.

One of his hands strokes through her loose hair, and she lifts her head to look upon his face. He is handsome, that has not changed. He hates seeing her pain, that has not changed either.

Kissing him had been pleasant, once. She remembers, and then she is kissing him again. His lips are firm yet hesitant as he slowly returns her attentions; his hands cannot decide where they want to rest, fluttering from hair to cheek to waist and back again.

"Ser, please," she murmurs, "I can't dwell on sad things any longer, I fear it will break me. I would rather dwell on that which brings me joy--"

As she leans in to press another lingering kiss to his lips, she locks eyes with him and sees nothing but pity there. For a moment she hates him -- hates him so intensely that she feels her lungs might burst with it -- for he is a knight, yet he is almost as helpless as she is. Yet he still has the gall to pity her.

The moment passes, and she kisses him so fiercely that she knocks him back into the cushions and tastes blood in her mouth from where she's bitten him. He responds in kind, all ferocity and passion, none of the delicate reverence he'd shown her when he'd last been in her bed. A fire grows inside of her, stroked higher by the way he grasps her body through the thin nightgown, the way he groans when she rolls her hips so that she feels his arousal.

He shifts so that he is on top of her now and reaches to finish pulling her nightgown up, and suddenly there are _men's hands like steel holding her down and touching every bit of her, pulling her legs apart and reaching, reaching--_

Someone is saying her name. It is Ser Arys. His worried face hovers before hers, her nightgown is back down around her knees, and his hands clasp hers tightly. Her tears have soaked the cushions on which she rests, she realizes, and she can't make them stop.

"Hold me. Please," she manages to get out, voice quavering.

He looks relieved to be told what to do. The weight of him is comforting now; all he does this time is shift to the side and cradle her against him and stroke her hair and press soft kisses to her temples.

"I love you," he whispers, "I would never hurt you, never--"

She buries her face in that broad chest and sobs.

 

* * *

 

Joffrey chokes and dies while the entire court stands around helpless. The Queen's screams fill her ears, and she feels as if she will be sick. She had wanted him to die, had prayed for it, but now she sees and hears only pain. There is no joy to be found here, only relief for future victims now spared. Relief for Margaery Tyrell. Relief for herself.

She stands from the table -- she cannot watch this -- and is grabbed by two men dressed as servants. An exclamation tumbles through her lips, but a hand silences her and she is half-pushed, half-carried away. Her body remembers _men grabbing at her, men ripping at her dress, men's hands covering her mouth so she will not scream_ and she freezes. Her brain has gone stupid and she cannot decide if she wants to peer out the corners of her eyes so she might see her abductors or if she never wants to know their faces.

There is a stumble and suddenly blood, so much blood, and then Ser Arys is sheathing his sword and holding a hand out to her. The men are just bodies now, and she is covered in red.

He is saying her name. He is saying her name. He is saying her name, and there are gold cloaks everywhere, and she is dragged away again.

 

* * *

 

The Queen's open palm cracks across her face. "Where were they taking you?" she demands.

"I don't know," she answers, maybe for the thousandth time. Her voice aches and they have not let her sleep in days.

She is slapped again and begins to laugh; her dry throat makes it a hoarse, lurching sound that barely leaves the curtain of her hair. She has been beaten by stronger hands than the Queen's. 

 

* * *

 

He is the one who escorts her to her trial. She is not allowed to take his arm. He walks behind her, and now she feels truly and completely a prisoner.

She stops short before they enter the hall, and he almost runs into her back.

"I had a direwolf for a pet once," she says, keeping her voice low. It is important that he understand her. It is important that he know. "Her name was Lady, and she was a perfect little lady. My sister had one, too. One day, Joffrey attacked Arya while she was playing with one of her friends. Nymeria was only protecting her, but when they asked me, I-- I lied. I lied. But the Queen wanted blood, and she didn't care that Lady had done nothing wrong."

"I know," he whispers. He is warm at her back and his lips brush her ear. "Let me fight for you," he pleads.

 

* * *

 

Ser Arys faces off against the Mountain, and she knows that they are both doomed before he even draws his sword.

 

* * *

 

The void of the Black Cells is so encompassing that if she lets her mind go away to that little place inside, that place that doesn't think or feel or cry, she can pretend that she never existed at all. Only emptiness remains; there is no point in tears. There is no point in anything.

Time blurs and vanishes, and she doesn't realize that anyone else is there until a hand grasps her arm, until the chains are removed. 

The hands hurry her out through a maze of tunnels, and her mind snaps to men's hands controlling her, men's hands groping her, men's hands roughly forcing her down until she is splayed out before them, a man's ugly engorged member coming closer and closer and no no no no no--

She doesn't realize until later that the path she was rushed along was not the same way she came in.

 

* * *

 

Her name is Alayne.

She dreams, sometimes, of another life; of court and cruelty, schemes and plots, lies and love.  She is a lady, kind and charming and beautiful, though perhaps not so innocent as a young lady should be. There is a knight, gallant and dashing and handsome, though perhaps not so noble as a knight should be.

Her heart aches whenever she wakes from dreaming of him, but she doesn't know if it is broken from grief or from guilt. She prays before the Mother -- for his soul or for her own, she's not sure. It's not clear anymore where his sins end and hers begin.

What does it mean, to die?  Do you die with the last breath that leaves your body, or with the last time your name passes another's lips, or with the last memory of you that fades away?

When she closes her eyes, she can't quite picture his face, and never again does she speak his name.


End file.
